


You Make Me Feel Like a Whore

by Ennead



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Anal Sex, Angry Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Power Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-15
Updated: 2012-11-15
Packaged: 2017-11-24 23:51:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/632868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ennead/pseuds/Ennead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles' treatment of Pickles in the bedroom is starting to get to him, and he sets out to do something about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Make Me Feel Like a Whore

Pickles lay panting beneath his manager, pinned not only by Charles' strong hips but by his own weakness of character. It wasn't the first time he'd been there and surely as fuck wouldn't be the last, but it was similar in certain ways to all of those occasions. There was the blinding orgasm he was about to have, and the deeply coloured splotches left on his collarbone by his lawyer's sharp mouth, or the fact that he was, as always, on the bottom.

All in all, though, a hell of a way to spend an evening.

He cried out as Charles nipped at his neck, adding to who knew how many tiny pinpricks he had left there. Early on, he'd learned the man loved to mark him; whether out of love for the action or a love of visible ownership, he didn't know. It wasn't even a question whether or not Charles owned Pickles, because he certainly did. Whatever he was told to do, the drummer did, and always willingly with a smile or similar approving expression on his face... often one of ecstasy. He couldn't argue, because if he did, Charles would just point out the obvious: Pickles wanted it. And he did.

Slanting his mouth across Pickles' in a very claiming manner, Charles came, his groan vibrating through the other man's mouth and directly to his erection, making him follow. It was all over then, and whatever they'd been in the heat of the moment was replaced by heaving breaths and a sticky, sweaty mess. That was something Pickles hated; the sensation of going back to normal. Of leaving that incredible place he went when Charles touched him - anywhere, any way - and going back to reality. Going back to what he really was, which without any bells and whistles, was a musician being fucked on the side by his manager.

It just didn't sound as amazing as it felt.

Not like he was even "on the side" in the most accurate of ways. He wasn't on the side of some beautiful boytoy or wonderful wife, or even any lover at all. He was on the side of nothing. Nothing was, apparently, better than actually being with Pickles, and so Charles wasn't going to commit to a damn thing. He'd never given the impression that he would, and Pickles couldn't fool himself, but that didn't make it suck any less every time he was kicked out of the bedroom and back to his own.

Charles gave the side of his neck a final small, but possessive, lick, making the drummer's whole body shudder in response, before he pulled out. That in and of itself was an unpleasant feeling, but it didn't beat knowing that he was expected to get dressed and fuck off pretty much immediately. It had never been said, but always implied somehow. Like Charles always had somewhere better to be, or something better to be doing.

He lay there for a minute, daring to linger while he heard Charles getting dressed behind him. Already he felt cold from the lack of extra body heat, and couldn't help but feel the event would be better as a whole if he were allowed to relax. Often he thought of saying something about it, but it always seemed like a great idea right up until he met Charles' piercing gaze, which suggested his mouth was better off either closed or sucking on something.

This made him sit up rather quickly and search around for his pants, wiping absently at his sticky stomach with a hand towel that had been thrown next to him. He glanced at the other man and found that he was being watched intently. Maybe he should have already left. Maybe--

"Pickles." 

The drummer started, doubling his efforts to put his pants on and nearly doing so backwards. "Yeeuh?"

"Something bothering you?"

"Eh…" He paused, trying to make his tone sound light. "Nah, it's nothin'. Jest caught ep in my thoughts, thet's all." 

"Right."

"Although… You could be a little happier ta see me, ya'know, 'specially in light of the conditions, heh. If anythin's botherin' me it'd have ta be that I feel like Ah'm botherin' you." 

Silence. Immediately he regretted saying anything at all. He wasn't sure what exactly could be done to him, realistically, considering that Charles was his protector outside of the bedroom and was unlikely to physically harm him. That had never really been a concern. All the same, he was pretty vulnerable to the guy and, without having seemingly tried, Charles had already reduced Pickles to some kind of sexual pet… he didn't want to know what would happen if he'd really made him angry. 

"If you're uncomfortable you can feel free to leave, Pickles. I'm not your slave master," he commented offhandedly, the faintest touch of insincerity in the last part of the comment. "You know where to find me when you're in a better mood."

"In a--" Pickles stopped mid-protest. This was good enough, he supposed, best not to tempt fate and get something worse. He yanked his shirt over his head and left the room quickly, making a last brief moment of eye contact with his manager before the door separated them. He could almost have sworn there was a hint of challenge in the gaze, but there was no way that could be the case. It was more likely just dominance manifesting, a reminder to Pickles that Charles was the boss even if technically it was the other way around. 

Rushing back to his room, he closed the door and threw himself backwards onto the bed, letting it knock the wind out of him. "Feckin' Charlie," he muttered, feeling resentful. When had he become such a bitch? He hadn't been like this with any other men or women he'd ever been with, but somehow, all Charles had to do was look at him the right way and he lost all of his resolve. All his nerve. He'd be on his knees before he realized what was happening, at a word. 

It wasn't as if Charles was ever really mean, not actually. He wasn't really that much of a dick to him. He just seemed to challenge him with every word, and it was a battle Pickles could not hope to fight. If there was any expectation in the other man for Pickles to fight back, if that was his intention, it had never been fulfilled. He wondered sometimes if that was what Charles was waiting for.

If it was, he wasn't sure he was up to the task. 

Pickles rolled over within reach of his bedside table, grabbing an open and half empty bottle of tequila from it. Nathan wasn't allowed to have any, but he sure was, and now felt like the time. Stupid Charles. Stupid sex. Stupid fucking Pickles, he thought, why are you doing this to yourself?

A knock sounded at his door, which was partially ajar anyway. He looked up irritably to see the man himself, Nathan peering into his room as if summoned by thought, or the scent of tequila, or both. 

"Hey. What are you, uh. Doing in here?"

"Feckin' drinkin'." He motioned with the bottle towards the singer, showing him the obvious. "Why?"

"I'm bored. Is that tequila?"

"Nat fer you it ain't. Nat fer a feckin' second. Nate'n…" Pickles sat up, heaving a sigh and spilling some of the tequila on the bedspread in his effort to right himself. "You ever been in a relationship where ya feel like a feckin' whore sometimes?"

Nathan grimaced, coming into the room more and closing the door. "No. What? No. Like, you mean cheating on girls or what? Or like… sex. For money. Like that?"

"No, dood, no. Nat like thet. Like ya feel like yer jest there to get fecked, and then they don't want ya round anymore. Only it's not 'cause ya wanna leave on yer own. Ya follow me?"

There was a moment of consideration while Nathan thought this over. He looked at Pickles oddly and raised an eyebrow as he answered. "Like… what we do to our groupies?"

"Yeeuh. Jest like thet, actually."

"Oh." He grimaced again. "No."

"Oh, come ahn! Nat even with that tennis player chick? Rebecca? The one who was in a coma--"

"Yeah, fuck, I know who you mean. Shut up. And no," Nathan added sorely, "not even then. No."

"Awreet, sorry man. Well. Feck." Pickles took a long drink from the bottle, and when it lowered from his field of vision, Nathan was still in the room. They shared an awkward look.

"Do you. Uh. Wanna talk about it?"

"No."

"Good. Have, uh, fun getting drunk," he said, and Nathan left the room. It was just as well the guys - other than Murderface, really, who didn't actually care but was a huge fan of gossip as long as it humiliated other people - knew how to keep their noses out of other people's business, or maybe didn't care enough not to. Deep down, Pickles was fairly sure that Nathan, if nobody else, probably did care about him, but it wasn't their way to talk about stuff like this. And he sure as fuck wasn't sharing his secret with anybody in the band. None of them could know what went on behind closed doors, it would ruin him. He doubted any of them would be mature about the situation, and nothing would ever be the same again. That couldn't happen. 

'It would be nice if I could at least discuss this pseudo-relationship with the guy I'm fucking, though', he thought bitterly. 

He drank alone for a while, lying back on his bed with only his increasingly angry thoughts for company. What made him so unappealing that Charles could do all manner of shit to him in bed, but not have a conversation with him afterwards? Their interactions were fine in all other respects, and outside of the bedroom - whether they were in front of the guys or not - Charles treated him totally normally. But when it counted most, in his opinion, the CFO really fell short in terms of being a decent human being. 

"Why?"

Pickles realized he had said that out loud, and decided that if he was drunk enough to talk to himself, maybe he was drunk enough to talk to Charles, too. A few parts of his brain went off in warning, telling him that was probably a terrible idea, but he ignored them. What could the guy to do him? He was already being emotionally punished for no reason. There wasn't a lot left on the table to scare him off other than conditioning.

Once he finished this mental pep talk, he found he was already in the hallway, though leaning against the wall. He slowly lowered the now-empty tequila bottle to the floor next to the door, not feeling inclined to go back inside to put it down, and made his way down the hall leisurely. He felt good. He felt confident. This was clearly a result of the alcohol, but he'd never been one to dismiss feelings or bad ideas just because of that. 

Ofdensen's office was dark, as it had been when he'd left a few hours previously; it was unusual not to find Charles at his desk taking care of their empire, but such was the case tonight. He didn't wonder about it for long; this suited his purposes far more. Pickles made his way over to the door that led to Charles' apartment and let himself in. 

He tried to walk softly as he made his way into the main room, but he knew that Charles probably already knew he was there. It was incredibly hard to sneak up on him, which was really for the best in most situations. The living room found itself empty, so he rounded the wall to the open bedroom door and saw Charles lying on his bed, reading a book. Pickles entered the room, and his manager looked up at him without a trace of surprise. His voice was light when he spoke. 

"Pickles. Back so soon?"

"Don't--" Pickles faltered slightly, but his liquid courage did not desert him, and he walked closer to the bed. "Don't feckin' talk down to me, Charlie. Not right now."

"I wasn't. What is it you needed?"

"Yer always talkin' down to me in here, man. Every time. Everythin' you say ta me. Like Ah'm a groupie, like-- who tha feck do ya think I am, that ya can jest push me tha feck around?"

Charles raised an eyebrow and put down the book, standing up in front of the bed and raising his hands in a calming gesture. "Now, that's not quite fair. You should know, I only ever treated you the way that--"

"That I LET YOU!" 

Pickles lunged for him, and whether it was a genuine lack of preparation for the act or a lack of willingness to accidentally hurt one of the boys, Charles didn't move out of the way or try to stop him. They went tumbling backwards onto the bed, Pickles holding Charles by his shoulders, and the CFO bearing an uncharacteristic look of alarm. "Wh--"

"Shut up!" The drummer snarled, pushing the other man down into the bed harder. "Jest, jest shut the feck up, Charlie, shut up. Ya gatta always feckin' ruin everything, with yer feckin' smart mouth. Can't have a feckin' decent moment after without you spoilin' it, maybe I don't WANT TO FECKIN' LEAVE, maybe I don't wanna be sent aff like feckin' paperwork once yer done puttin' yer MARK on me, huh? How about thet?"

"Pickles, I--" Charles' words were cut off by his own snarl as Pickles yanked his head back by his hair, scowling at him darkly. His fingers tightened, and he leaned down, nose to nose with his unlikely captive. 

"What did I jest feckin' tell you ta do?"

Charles' mouth closed. Their gazes held steady with one another, but those hazel eyes were unreadable as always.

Realistically, Pickles knew there was no way that he could physically match Charles. In a true tussle, he would be the loser in record time. But for whatever reason, Charles wasn't fighting it, and he decided to take advantage of that while it lasted. Maybe he had been right. Maybe Charles had been waiting for him to accept an unspoken challenge. 

He was going to find out. 

Keeping his grip on the man's shoulders, Pickles leaned down and kissed him forcefully, almost too hard. Charles responded, but he moved one hand to Pickles' back as he did so, and the drummer pinned it to the bed next to his head. Once again, Charles failed to fight back. 

Pickles moved his free hand down to Charles' slacks, lifting the edge of his untucked white shirt to undo the button. Charles' hips lifted slightly to assist, and the slacks were pushed down, allowing him to feel the sizable bulge there. "Is this whet you like, eh, Charlie? To feel like some kinda groupie? Like some feckin' whore?"

He squeezed and the man under him moaned, his expression pained but also flushed. Pickles pushed his hand inside Charles' underwear, grabbing his cock firmly and pushing the wet head against his palm. As he worked the shaft, he lowered his face to the stretch of pale neck below and gave an experimental bite, not failing to notice the shudder that ran through the body that lay flush with his own. He bit harder, running his tongue across the skin he was tasting, and an audible groan followed. 

Pickles flinched as he felt a hand ghost over the crotch of his pants. He lifted his head to scold Charles for moving, but the look in the eyes that met his glare was one he was entirely unfamiliar with. It wasn't the predatory glare he was used to, but more desperate and submissive, almost pleading. Charles' mouth was open, wet lips still panting, and the way he looked up at Pickles seemed as though he was… asking for permission. Pickles grinned, giving him another tug that made the look deepen. He let go of the man's wrist and cock together, using one hand to steady himself as he rose and the other to grip the back of Charles' neck as he forced him to follow suit. He pushed him into a standing position and then sat back down on the edge of the bed, self-satisfaction describing his face as he raised one pierced eyebrow.

"Go ahn, then. On yer knees, Charlie."

To his lessening shock, Charles obeyed. He knelt between Pickles' legs and undid his fly, maintaining eye contact the entire time. It only ended when Pickles closed his eyes involuntarily, the feeling of his manager's mouth on his cock too much to take with composure. It wasn't that Charles never blew him, but never had he done it in such a subservient fashion. It was always to make a point, or to tease him so he could draw out Pickles' neediness to its limits. Charles loved to be withholding, to deny him especially when he begged for it. It was interesting to see the other side of the coin. To see him want to please, and not just so he could gloat when he broke Pickles' resolve…

He realized he'd grabbed Charles' hair and was pushing on his head, but the other man didn't seem to mind at all. If anything, he seemed encouraged by it. Pickles threaded his fingers through and pulled a little, and felt a moan vibrate down to his balls. Pushed harder on that lightly bobbing head, losing focus as he sank deeper into Charles' hot mouth. The man was an artist, he thought in a daze. 

"Ah… Charlie…Gahd, yes," he groaned, leaning back on one arm before slowly sinking onto his back altogether. His grip in the hair remained, but Charles sat up with him and kept going, giving the drummer his utmost attention. One deft hand tended to his balls expertly. Suddenly, Pickles began to feel the warning signs of impending climax, and yanked the man's head back sharply as he propped himself up again. Charles hissed in pain but, as their eyes met again, the submissive expression had not yet faded. 

"Stand up, 'n take off yer pants. Shirt too, actually." He watched hungrily as Charles undressed, pushing down his half undone slacks and shrugging off the button down shirt. The clothes pooled at his feet, and Pickles had to take a moment to admire the physical perfection of the man before him, who somehow, through some strange magic, was doing his bidding. Momentarily, he felt privileged. 

"Get ahn the bed. Now. Ahn yer back."

Pickles rose warily from the mattress, not sure if he could trust Charles to keep obeying his orders, no matter how firm. He stood as Charles took his place, lying back on the pillows obediently while Pickles fished in his bedside table for the lube they always used. He felt pleased to be fetching it for himself, instead of at the command of his CFO as was the usual way. 

He crawled back onto the mattress, positioning himself between the manager's legs and propping his arms up on Charles' raised knees. Pickles gave him a cocky, self-assured look and popped the top on the lubricant. "Gimme yer hand."

Charles outstretched one hand, palm up. Pickles poured the cold lube onto it, a smallish puddle that the other man cupped his hand to contain. Snapping the top closed, he set it down on the bed next to his leg and gestured to the palmful before him.

"Go ahn. Get yerself ready fer me. 'N do a good jahb, 'cause I ain't gonna be easy on ya. Naht after whet you put me through. It's whet you deserve."

Pickles thought he saw a glint in Charles' eye, and then the brunet was daubing the fingers of his other hand in the lube, holding eye contact just as before, and sliding his hand down…

It was almost too much to watch. It was what he wanted to watch, to be sure, but it was enough that the word 'obscene' rose in Pickles' sex-addled mind. It was so lewd, and coming from the man who typically ruled over his sex life with an iron fist, it was simply excessively hot. He gave a wet gulp and reached down absently for his erection, which prompted the slightest of eyebrow raises from Charles. 

A moment after one eyebrow raised, the two knitted together briefly and his eyes closed; Pickles leaned back to give himself a more comfortable position and watched as two long, slender fingers disappeared into Charles' slick hole. His head swam. Was it the faintest of blushes he saw on that usually stern face? He was certain it was. The drummer let out an involuntary groan and the blush deepened, Charles' eyes reopening to lock back onto his own. A third finger slipped in, and that smart mouth of his opened to gasp wordlessly. 

Pickles knew he was being allowed to see all of this. The permission, the opportunity, to see Charles so bare, even after all they had done together - it was indescribable. Not to say that their prior encounters had lacked steam, nor that Charles had not shown pleasure openly to Pickles time and again, but never like this. Never as the object, only as the user. Pickles was always the object.

Till now.

The pool of lube had been reduced to a sheen on his palm, and Charles reached out to take hold of Pickles' erection with that hand. Pickles gasped, and saw that the fingers had been withdrawn, and Charles was lying with splayed legs and a pleading look that he couldn't resist. He lunged forward and braced himself over that hard body, pushing lightly against Charles' entrance, but paused. Pickles leaned down to bite where a pale slope of neck met firm shoulders, feeling the other man's whole body quiver beneath him as he did so. Bit again, and again, then breathed against the wet marks and felt another shiver. A tiny sound escaped Charles, not a word, but some shred of control that had remained and was at that moment lost. Pickles pushed a little further, but restrained himself. The hand on his cock gripped him tightly, massaging a little, trying to coax him into the act.

"Whet do ya want?" Pickles whispered, licking the shell of Charles' ear. "Hmm? Whet is it?"

"Ah…" Charles gave him a slightly reproachful look, the flush deepening again across his cheekbones.

"Come ahn, ya haven't gatten ta say a word with that smart mouth-- though," Pickles laughed, "I feel it's gat its better uses elsewhere. Speak yer piece. What do ya need?"

Another small shudder ran through his body as Charles spoke. "I need you to fuck me. Please. Please, don't tease me. Not now. Just… do it. Pickles…"

As if to make his point, he tugged on Pickles' cock, pushing his body towards it as much as he could while caged under the other man's lanky body. Pickles grinned, a triumphant slash of white as he sank into Charles with a pained groan. The sound Charles made then was enough to make him doubt his stamina there and then. 

"Aaaah, Charlie, Jesus," he gasped, steadying his shaking arms as he tried to adjust to the overwhelmingly tight heat. A glance down at Charles' face gave him no aid, as the expression he saw there was another blow to his resolve. The ferocious gaze he'd been maintaining had reduced itself to heavy lids and knitted brows, mouth open in a desperate pant that Pickles ended with a sharp kiss. He thrust quickly as he did so, swallowing the moan that it elicited from his counterpart. In to the hilt, he drew back to study that wondrous expression, and how Ofdensen's hands were fisted in the bedsheets, fingers absently curling and uncurling, fidgeting the same way his body fidgeted against Pickles' own cock, betraying the man's need for motion. 

"I… asked you not to tease me… Oh, god…" The rectangular frames slipped down Charles' nose, sweat beading on his face and cheeks pink, hair tousled. Pickles couldn't resist ignoring his plea, though it had not been his plan. 

"Aw, but ya see, ya teased me plenty, Charlie, all o' the time. Big fan of it, ya are. So…" He nudged firmly inside, enjoying the bitten lip it caused, and ran a thumb over Charles' balls contemplatively. "I think Ah'll change my tack. Think Ah'll take my sweet time with et, awreet?"

Charles groaned in disappointment, then again in pleasure as Pickles slowly drew back, wrapping a hand around the manager's neglected cock as he did so. He rubbed the beading precum over the tip as he pushed back in, equally slowly, which given his pent up aggression and previously consumed tequila took all of his patience and restraint. Charles looked like he had run a marathon; already unraveled and they'd barely begun, Pickles thought. 

'I never realized I could have this effect on him,' the drummer thought curiously. 'Damn.'

He leaned over Charles and tried to maintain his agonizingly slow pace, leaving imprints of his mouth across both shoulders and high onto the man's neck. So the guy liked to mark Pickles, did he? They'd see how he liked being marked, himself. Something told Pickles he would like it a great deal, and more than just the ragged breaths coming from below him. He felt his hips quicken of their own accord, pushing harder and faster, and thought that perhaps that would be okay, just for a little bit…

Charles' legs spread further beneath him in response, manicured nails raking his back sharply, body arching. Pickles pushed one toned leg back by the thigh, giving him a better angle and ripping an alarmingly loud and delicious sound from Charles' throat. The word wanton floated across Pickles' mind, and he thought it described the man perfectly.

His movements were much more purposeful now, though he didn't remember deciding to do that. Every thrust prompted a moan from his manager, and the now-neglected erection bobbing between them looked uncomfortably hard. Pickles seized it and worked the shaft, feeling a telltale sensation building in his stomach and upper thighs. The pulsing of the cock in his hand betrayed a similar situation for Charles. 

"Look at me," he snapped commandingly, punctuating with an especially forceful thrust. Hazel eyes opened lazily, clouded, and he saw the blush spread on the man's face again as those eyes took in the scene before them. 

"Aahn… Yes… Whatever you want…"

Pickles threw in the towel, giving up the last of his restraint and pounding with abandon into the body beneath his. Charles struggled to keep his eyes open, their gazes locked, and when they finally did close it was together with his strangled shout as he came into Pickles' hand and onto himself. The drummer grinned again, the same dazzling, crooked grin as before, and then grit his teeth as he came forcefully inside Charles. 

They rested that way for a moment, half upright, broken panting filling the otherwise silent room. Then Pickles slowly withdrew and collapsed sideways onto the bed. Charles let his legs slide down crookedly. Their breathing slowed. 

"And eh… let that… be a lesson ta ya," Pickles managed, wiping his hand on the bedspread as he stared at the ceiling. "Or somethin'."

"Nnh," Charles said by way of response.

"Really, though, ya don't gatta be sech a dick, ya'know. I like ya in bed and out. So longs'ya don't treat me like shit, yeeuh?"

Charles sat up blearily. "I tried to tell you… before. I only ever treated you the way I wanted to be treated. Real spiteful, controlling sex is hard to come by when you just ask for it up front. It needs to be groomed."

Pickles sat up in disbelief. "Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"So, now that Ah've been… groomed... as ya were sayin'…" He trailed off, looking at his rumpled manager for followup.

"…Then we can act normally from now on. Sorry for the ruse, as it were, but I think we can agree that it ultimately ended well for the both of us."

Briefly, Pickles considered this, and nodded. "Yeeuh. Yeeuh, I'd agree with thet. Fer sher." 

Charles smiled, a genuine one rather than his more typical smirk. "Excellent."


End file.
